I copied this from the Hinustani Times, Lucknow, Thursday, February 21, 2008.
Ross
Zia Haq
New Delhi, February 20
DARUL ULOOM of Deoband, one of Islam's most influential schools of thought to which even Afghanistan's Taliban owe academic allegiance, will for the first time declare acts of terrorism to be against the religion, a top cleric told HT on Tuesday.
The declaration will come on February 25 at the end of a day-long anti-terrorism seminar in Deaoband, which will be attended by representatives of nearly 6000 madrasas from across the country including those from other Muslim sects such as the Barelvi school and foreign delegates.” A declaration will be issued to the effect that all acts of terrorism are patently anti-Islamic in light of the Chapter 5 of the Quran (Al-Maidah) which clearly prohibits killing of innocent people,” said cleric and vice-rector of Darul Uloom, Maulana Abdul Khaleque Madrasi.
The Islamic seminary founded in 1866 has always been in the news for its far reaching “fatwas”. The latest proclamation prepared by the seminary, which HT has access to, states “All acts of terrorism are anti-Islamic.” The declaration will include a hidayat I(advice), asking all “Muslims to stay away from terrorists and terror organizations. Asked whether suicide bombings were included in its definition of “terror acts”, he said ... “all forms of forms of violence used to kill innocent individual”.
Mohammed Mukadam, the chairman of the Association of UK Muslim Schools said: “The emerging view is that killing of innocents is not compatible with Islam and this is the basis for the declaration.”
The Darul Uloom has been in talks with Islamic scholars across the world to arrive at a consensus on issues like terrorism and whether such tools of violence are just, a seminary official said.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Concert
Feb. 22, 2008
Last night we went to a classical music and dance concert arranged through the hotel. We set off in an auto rickshaw driven by one of the hotel staff members, Rostom, a paan consumer of major proportions. It was a crazy mad drive in the dark full of lurching and sudden stopping and vigourous bouncing off our seats as we dropped into and out of pot holes. And of course the constant honking of horns. We were caught in a major traffic snarl and were motionless for what seemed like ages. We finally arrived after going down narrow lanes, squeezing past cycle rickshaws, bikes and pedestrians, at a hall next to the Elvis Guest House.
It was a small hall with a raised stage area at one end, a cotton padded area down two sides with cushions for sitting against plus a couple of carpets. The whitewashed walls on three sides were painted with line drawings of dancers, instruments and a Saraswati (the Goddess of music and learning). On one wall hung 7 or 8 sitars and a couple of violins in plastic bags and a large bin of wooden flutes sat under the sitars.
When we arrived there were three young women and two young men sitting against one wall. A friendly young Indian man welcome us and sat on the stage singing scales now and then. From a door on one side of the hall could be heard the sound of dishes being washed, children's voices and the occasional deep low of a cow. More young travellers arrived all greeted by the man on the stage. Another young man arrived, took one of the sitars from the wall, removed the plastic bag and sat on the stage tuning it. The first chap was the tabla player and he set to tuning his drums.
As the musicians were preparing their instruments three fellows came in with a young woman who had been sitting in the entrance when we arrived. They all sat in a corner, the three men surrounded her, one holding a stringed instrument that I'd not seen before. They were giving her the total hard-sell treatment. The instrument looked a bit tacky and new to me. She looked polite, but tired and overwhelmed. The concert was about to start with the lights down and the stage lights up and explanations of the music beginning and still the fellows were hounding the girl. All four finally left through the side door. Shortly after the concert began the girl came back and sat to listen to the concert with no instrument in hand.
The players were very good, the concert was not too long, it was lively and rhythmical and never dragged.
Then the dancer appeared. He was slim and totally effeminate, dressed in a calf-length robe completely covered with purple sequins, belted with a gold mesh sash, an ornate necklace around his throat hanging to his chest, white jodhpurs, tight on the calves and full on the thighs, multi-belled anklets from bare foot to eight inches up. He had black kohl and white eye shadow accentuating his marvelously expressive eyes, rouged cheeks and plum lipstick on his full lips, lips that could pout seductively or break into a huge smile. The movements that he could make with his arms, hands and fingers, each muscle under complete control, the rhythmic stomping of his feet in 16 beat time in total sync with the tabla, the sinuous and sensuous movement of his hips, spine and neck was all put together with incredibly intricate and elaborate eye movements and facial expressions plus hand and finger gestures into a terrifically entertaining dance. This form of North Indian dance is called Katak. Between each dance section he would give an explanation of the rhythms and time using the vocal syllables often heard in a tabla concert. “Ta, tika ta,ta, tika, ta, ta...” A young woman here at the hotel is studying Katak dance and had one lesson with him. He has been studying Katak dance since the age of four. I believe women were discouraged from dancing so men played the part of women, as was done in early Shakespearean performances. This dancer was an absolute diva, a real drag queen, and did one dance that I'm sure he choreographed himself, of a woman doing her long hair, putting on her makeup, looking in the mirror, putting on her shawl and going to fetch water and carry it on her head. A great performance and so entertaining.
Judy Norbury
Last night we went to a classical music and dance concert arranged through the hotel. We set off in an auto rickshaw driven by one of the hotel staff members, Rostom, a paan consumer of major proportions. It was a crazy mad drive in the dark full of lurching and sudden stopping and vigourous bouncing off our seats as we dropped into and out of pot holes. And of course the constant honking of horns. We were caught in a major traffic snarl and were motionless for what seemed like ages. We finally arrived after going down narrow lanes, squeezing past cycle rickshaws, bikes and pedestrians, at a hall next to the Elvis Guest House.
It was a small hall with a raised stage area at one end, a cotton padded area down two sides with cushions for sitting against plus a couple of carpets. The whitewashed walls on three sides were painted with line drawings of dancers, instruments and a Saraswati (the Goddess of music and learning). On one wall hung 7 or 8 sitars and a couple of violins in plastic bags and a large bin of wooden flutes sat under the sitars.
When we arrived there were three young women and two young men sitting against one wall. A friendly young Indian man welcome us and sat on the stage singing scales now and then. From a door on one side of the hall could be heard the sound of dishes being washed, children's voices and the occasional deep low of a cow. More young travellers arrived all greeted by the man on the stage. Another young man arrived, took one of the sitars from the wall, removed the plastic bag and sat on the stage tuning it. The first chap was the tabla player and he set to tuning his drums.
As the musicians were preparing their instruments three fellows came in with a young woman who had been sitting in the entrance when we arrived. They all sat in a corner, the three men surrounded her, one holding a stringed instrument that I'd not seen before. They were giving her the total hard-sell treatment. The instrument looked a bit tacky and new to me. She looked polite, but tired and overwhelmed. The concert was about to start with the lights down and the stage lights up and explanations of the music beginning and still the fellows were hounding the girl. All four finally left through the side door. Shortly after the concert began the girl came back and sat to listen to the concert with no instrument in hand.
The players were very good, the concert was not too long, it was lively and rhythmical and never dragged.
Then the dancer appeared. He was slim and totally effeminate, dressed in a calf-length robe completely covered with purple sequins, belted with a gold mesh sash, an ornate necklace around his throat hanging to his chest, white jodhpurs, tight on the calves and full on the thighs, multi-belled anklets from bare foot to eight inches up. He had black kohl and white eye shadow accentuating his marvelously expressive eyes, rouged cheeks and plum lipstick on his full lips, lips that could pout seductively or break into a huge smile. The movements that he could make with his arms, hands and fingers, each muscle under complete control, the rhythmic stomping of his feet in 16 beat time in total sync with the tabla, the sinuous and sensuous movement of his hips, spine and neck was all put together with incredibly intricate and elaborate eye movements and facial expressions plus hand and finger gestures into a terrifically entertaining dance. This form of North Indian dance is called Katak. Between each dance section he would give an explanation of the rhythms and time using the vocal syllables often heard in a tabla concert. “Ta, tika ta,ta, tika, ta, ta...” A young woman here at the hotel is studying Katak dance and had one lesson with him. He has been studying Katak dance since the age of four. I believe women were discouraged from dancing so men played the part of women, as was done in early Shakespearean performances. This dancer was an absolute diva, a real drag queen, and did one dance that I'm sure he choreographed himself, of a woman doing her long hair, putting on her makeup, looking in the mirror, putting on her shawl and going to fetch water and carry it on her head. A great performance and so entertaining.
Judy Norbury
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Khamaria
Judy and I have been at Geoffrey and Kusam's sanctuary, their luxurious bungalow in the country. It feels like a well deserved holiday from the rigours of dealing with a mostly unaccessible India. Not only that but dealing with all the cheating and lying that we encountered on our travels. While I am ranting, I have to mention all the shit, open sewers, piles of plastic, and blood red splotches of paan, (adulterated chewing tobacco that is enddemic here.) That is why we feel so fortunate to be invited back here. It is very nice to be served by a well trained dedicated staff of servants. The sitting room, screened porch, is rather cool in the morning but warms up fast as the sun streams in. By mid morning while we were all sitting outside near the garden, it warmed up enough that I thought it would be nice to go for one more ride before having a driver deliver the bike back to Amrit, 18 kms away in Mirzapur.
I didn't ride yesterday as I twisted my old worn out knee the day before that. Three days ago ,Judy was given a ride out here by Amrit's micro van and the driver, Minoj. I rode the bike, the 125 Yamaha 4 stroke single. The next day I went back to Mirzapur to do some business with Amrit. I was having fun following behind 2 other bikers who knew the road. We were whipping along the mostly open road at about 70 clicks per hour. I was following behind guys who knew the road. Near the bridge that goes over the Ganga, they turned off. The highway improved and I headed to the bridge. A speed bump jumped out at me. I hit my brakes. At one point the front wheel locked at about 50. The bike started to go down. My dirt riding experience kicked in even though It was smooth pavement. I slapped my right foot down to keep the bike up. It worked. I bounced over the speed bump. I now headed up the bridge slope in screaming pain. I thought my loose knee joint came out of place. I kicked my leg to get it back into joint but the pain stayed. I concentrated on riding carefully but kept riding. I thought “I might need to see a doctor”. I tested my knee for proper operation and it was o/k. But because of the pain I knew there would be some swelling. As the acute pain subsided I decided to check my e-mail and then get some ice at Amrit's. A bit of denial I guess. Should have gone for the ice first.
I have been taking R55 Homeopathic remedy for the swelling, but after a night where Judy and I both were kept awake by pain, (Judy's shoulder still hurts a bit), I decided to get something a bit stronger than homeopathic. Judy, Kusam and I went off the next morning to see Dr. Rajan, a close friend of Kusam and Geoffrey. What a sight we were; the 3 of us piling out of the little car; Judy in her wheelchair; Kusam sniveling with a cold and walking with one crutch because of previous knee problems, and me limping with Judy's father's cane.
The pills and two days rest has my knee well enough that today seemed like a good day for a ride. On my way here, before I hurt my knee, I stopped at a little stand for a cup of chai. The friendly server mentioned a pond and pointed behind the village. That's where I headed. I ended up finding a beautiful agricultural area with lots of small lush vegetable plots near a larger town. I road along the narrow paved road which turned bumpy. I went uphill into the town. I stopped at a plumbing shop to get a screw for the bathroom towel rack. A friendly well dressed man man spoke English and invited me to his carpet factory behind the shop. I was pleasantly surprised to find myself in a very fine carpet manufacturing compound. I got a nice little tour and met his father who is my age. The work is fabulous. Silk and wool hand tied carpets of excellent quality. He had about 12 bays, that I saw, with about 3 people working on each carpet. A 3 by 4 meter rug takes about 2 months. About $2300 at the door here.
On the way I passed a village that had load chanting type music. On the way back I turned down a narrow dirt trail that led around a pond to a temple. Loud speakers mounted on top and placed around some awnings rattled out music at full blast. I parked the bike and walked over . I was invited an and did some video recording of a four piece band playing , I presume, religious songs in front of a small Hanuman shrine. I sat down and was served a couple small sweets. I knew everybody was wondering where I was and the bike would be late for its delivery if I didn't go back soon. It felt so nice to be riding in the warm air down through such lush farms and villages. Even with the occasional mishap riding bikes, I still love doing these little morning jaunts. Off to Varanasi in a borrowed car tomorrow.
I didn't ride yesterday as I twisted my old worn out knee the day before that. Three days ago ,Judy was given a ride out here by Amrit's micro van and the driver, Minoj. I rode the bike, the 125 Yamaha 4 stroke single. The next day I went back to Mirzapur to do some business with Amrit. I was having fun following behind 2 other bikers who knew the road. We were whipping along the mostly open road at about 70 clicks per hour. I was following behind guys who knew the road. Near the bridge that goes over the Ganga, they turned off. The highway improved and I headed to the bridge. A speed bump jumped out at me. I hit my brakes. At one point the front wheel locked at about 50. The bike started to go down. My dirt riding experience kicked in even though It was smooth pavement. I slapped my right foot down to keep the bike up. It worked. I bounced over the speed bump. I now headed up the bridge slope in screaming pain. I thought my loose knee joint came out of place. I kicked my leg to get it back into joint but the pain stayed. I concentrated on riding carefully but kept riding. I thought “I might need to see a doctor”. I tested my knee for proper operation and it was o/k. But because of the pain I knew there would be some swelling. As the acute pain subsided I decided to check my e-mail and then get some ice at Amrit's. A bit of denial I guess. Should have gone for the ice first.
I have been taking R55 Homeopathic remedy for the swelling, but after a night where Judy and I both were kept awake by pain, (Judy's shoulder still hurts a bit), I decided to get something a bit stronger than homeopathic. Judy, Kusam and I went off the next morning to see Dr. Rajan, a close friend of Kusam and Geoffrey. What a sight we were; the 3 of us piling out of the little car; Judy in her wheelchair; Kusam sniveling with a cold and walking with one crutch because of previous knee problems, and me limping with Judy's father's cane.
The pills and two days rest has my knee well enough that today seemed like a good day for a ride. On my way here, before I hurt my knee, I stopped at a little stand for a cup of chai. The friendly server mentioned a pond and pointed behind the village. That's where I headed. I ended up finding a beautiful agricultural area with lots of small lush vegetable plots near a larger town. I road along the narrow paved road which turned bumpy. I went uphill into the town. I stopped at a plumbing shop to get a screw for the bathroom towel rack. A friendly well dressed man man spoke English and invited me to his carpet factory behind the shop. I was pleasantly surprised to find myself in a very fine carpet manufacturing compound. I got a nice little tour and met his father who is my age. The work is fabulous. Silk and wool hand tied carpets of excellent quality. He had about 12 bays, that I saw, with about 3 people working on each carpet. A 3 by 4 meter rug takes about 2 months. About $2300 at the door here.
On the way I passed a village that had load chanting type music. On the way back I turned down a narrow dirt trail that led around a pond to a temple. Loud speakers mounted on top and placed around some awnings rattled out music at full blast. I parked the bike and walked over . I was invited an and did some video recording of a four piece band playing , I presume, religious songs in front of a small Hanuman shrine. I sat down and was served a couple small sweets. I knew everybody was wondering where I was and the bike would be late for its delivery if I didn't go back soon. It felt so nice to be riding in the warm air down through such lush farms and villages. Even with the occasional mishap riding bikes, I still love doing these little morning jaunts. Off to Varanasi in a borrowed car tomorrow.
Friday, February 8, 2008
The Bad Man
Last night during Anand’s visit as he lay stretched out on his side on the wicker settee, I read my story “High-Rise” to him. He was very pleased with it, also with the aliases I had chosen. I said “Bapuji isn’t really a bad man, is he?” He replied, “Oh yes, he is a very bad man. He is a criminal who spent time in jail some years ago. He has committed a murder.” And he proceeded to tell us this tale.
Fifteen years back Bapuji had an argument with a kerosene customer. This man was purchasing kerosene for a university and was getting a small kick-back but wanted more. When Bapuji refused, the buyer threatened to turn him in to the authorities. As Babuji told the story he became angry and hit the man on the head with a metal rod, whereupon he died. He dragged the body into his shop on the ground floor and with his unknowing family upstairs where they make their home, he cut up the body and put it into a bag.
Anand received a telephone call from Bapuji. “Can I borrow your Maruti. I have relatives coming and I need to fetch them.” Anand replied, “Sorry, we need it now for school business and tomorrow also I have appointments. It will not be possible.”
Bapuji then called another fellow, a friend of Anand’s. The chap agreed and arrived at the money lender’s. He was instructed by Bapuji to walk up to the local shop and buy cigarettes and tobacco, he came back with the purchase and off they went. It appeared to fellow that they were going in the wrong direction from where the relatives were meant to be arriving. “No, it’s fine. First we get petrol.” After the fill-up the car started heading toward Allahabad. The car lender again expressed concern. Bapuji said “You must be quiet and tell no one but there is a dead body in the dicky (trunk) of your car.” The poor fellow was terrified.
Bapuji continued to drive all the way to Allahabad looking unsuccessfully for a secluded spot to get rid of the body. Turnng around and heading back towards Mirzapur a spot by a field with no observers was found. “We will stop here.” Bapuji and his unfortunate companion threw the bag over the edge of the road where there was somewhat of a drop to the field below. Two farm labourers resting, unseen from the road observed the drop and wrote the car license plate number in the mud.
Bapuji returned to his house and warned the car man again to keep silent. Shaking, the chap drove to the petrol station, washed the bloody boot, returned the car, (which actually belonged to his older brother), to the garage, locked the door and immediately packed his bag and left to visit his uncle in Shrinigar, Kashmir.
The observant farm workers reported the incident to the local police, but as the car was from another district it took several days for the man’s brother to receive a call from the police.
“Do you own this car?”
“Yes.”
“When did you last drive it?”
“I don’t drive it. I haven’t a driver’s license and at the moment I don’t employ a driver.”
“Who else drives your car?”
“My brother uses it but at the moment he is in Shrinigar.”
The police then told him about the murder.
The man phoned his younger brother and was told the whole story. The young man came back to Mirzapur and went to the police. The police went to Bapuji’s establishment and asked him about the murder. He said, yes, he had become angry, hit the man and he died but he hadn’t intended to kill him and he was sorry that he’d died. He offered the police one lakh (100,000 rupees) to not beat him but the police commenced to beat Bapuji as they paraded him through all the streets of Mirzapur to punish him in front of all the townspeople.
There was a trial but according to Anand Indian law insists on eyewitnesses in addition to a confession and the eyewitnesses professed not to recognize Bapuji in the court line-up due to their fear of reprisal. Bapuji also changed his story and said the confession was extracted due to the beating of the police and that he was an innocent man. The case was closed. Bapuji spent a total of six months in prison as did the man with the car.
I look out on the walls of the Mirzapur jail from the sunroom where I write. Bapuji did fine in prison. His wife brought him all his meals as she lives almost next door to the prison. With money in Indian jails you can have all the comforts of home.
The Gods were watching over Anand the night he was asked to lend his car. About Bapuji he says, “On the outside we say hello we smile and are friendly but on the inside I am alert and cautious. We must keep it that way. We are neighbours.”
Fifteen years back Bapuji had an argument with a kerosene customer. This man was purchasing kerosene for a university and was getting a small kick-back but wanted more. When Bapuji refused, the buyer threatened to turn him in to the authorities. As Babuji told the story he became angry and hit the man on the head with a metal rod, whereupon he died. He dragged the body into his shop on the ground floor and with his unknowing family upstairs where they make their home, he cut up the body and put it into a bag.
Anand received a telephone call from Bapuji. “Can I borrow your Maruti. I have relatives coming and I need to fetch them.” Anand replied, “Sorry, we need it now for school business and tomorrow also I have appointments. It will not be possible.”
Bapuji then called another fellow, a friend of Anand’s. The chap agreed and arrived at the money lender’s. He was instructed by Bapuji to walk up to the local shop and buy cigarettes and tobacco, he came back with the purchase and off they went. It appeared to fellow that they were going in the wrong direction from where the relatives were meant to be arriving. “No, it’s fine. First we get petrol.” After the fill-up the car started heading toward Allahabad. The car lender again expressed concern. Bapuji said “You must be quiet and tell no one but there is a dead body in the dicky (trunk) of your car.” The poor fellow was terrified.
Bapuji continued to drive all the way to Allahabad looking unsuccessfully for a secluded spot to get rid of the body. Turnng around and heading back towards Mirzapur a spot by a field with no observers was found. “We will stop here.” Bapuji and his unfortunate companion threw the bag over the edge of the road where there was somewhat of a drop to the field below. Two farm labourers resting, unseen from the road observed the drop and wrote the car license plate number in the mud.
Bapuji returned to his house and warned the car man again to keep silent. Shaking, the chap drove to the petrol station, washed the bloody boot, returned the car, (which actually belonged to his older brother), to the garage, locked the door and immediately packed his bag and left to visit his uncle in Shrinigar, Kashmir.
The observant farm workers reported the incident to the local police, but as the car was from another district it took several days for the man’s brother to receive a call from the police.
“Do you own this car?”
“Yes.”
“When did you last drive it?”
“I don’t drive it. I haven’t a driver’s license and at the moment I don’t employ a driver.”
“Who else drives your car?”
“My brother uses it but at the moment he is in Shrinigar.”
The police then told him about the murder.
The man phoned his younger brother and was told the whole story. The young man came back to Mirzapur and went to the police. The police went to Bapuji’s establishment and asked him about the murder. He said, yes, he had become angry, hit the man and he died but he hadn’t intended to kill him and he was sorry that he’d died. He offered the police one lakh (100,000 rupees) to not beat him but the police commenced to beat Bapuji as they paraded him through all the streets of Mirzapur to punish him in front of all the townspeople.
There was a trial but according to Anand Indian law insists on eyewitnesses in addition to a confession and the eyewitnesses professed not to recognize Bapuji in the court line-up due to their fear of reprisal. Bapuji also changed his story and said the confession was extracted due to the beating of the police and that he was an innocent man. The case was closed. Bapuji spent a total of six months in prison as did the man with the car.
I look out on the walls of the Mirzapur jail from the sunroom where I write. Bapuji did fine in prison. His wife brought him all his meals as she lives almost next door to the prison. With money in Indian jails you can have all the comforts of home.
The Gods were watching over Anand the night he was asked to lend his car. About Bapuji he says, “On the outside we say hello we smile and are friendly but on the inside I am alert and cautious. We must keep it that way. We are neighbours.”
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
The High-Rise
In conversations with ordinary working class Indians such as our friends, train companions, taxi drivers and others, we hear complaints about the corruption that runs throughout all levels of this society. In our daily newspaper, The Times of India-Allahabad, there are stories regularly of corruption within parts of the government, the medical profession, the police, certain film stars, the education system, etc.
Down the lane from our apartment, the apartment that is upstairs from Anand’s battery and inverter business (a good business to be in, in this town of frequent power cuts) and the adjoining nursery school, at the corner of the small road that connects with the larger road, is a room, a business, run by Bapuji. Across the lane from this corner room is a pile of about 15 red steel 45 gallon drums.
Bapuji is a money lender, a loan shark, and a black market kerosene dealer. He is about 60 with a round smiling face. On his face is a slightly bemused expression. His head is covered in a small white cloth wrap, a sort of turban and he is dressed in a blue checked lungi (a sarong, a common garment for men) and a white shirt. He sits with his tin box full of money which he was only too happy to open and show and pose for a photograph. His clients are the poor to which he makes loans at exorbitant interest rates. Somewhat in the shadows sits Pupay, tall, with a long, handsome, somewhat arrogant face, slightly sinister. He is armed, so says Anand, and is Bapuji’s body guard and debt collector.
Kerosene is rationed to 3 litres per month and can be purchased only with a ration card. Bapuji has 3000 legitimate customers and has had printed 3000 fake ration cards so he can buy double the amount of kerosene. He buys it for 11 rupees per litre, the government rate, and sells it for 20 to 25 rupees per litre. The inspectors know he does this and they receive their cut. The Supply Officer knows about it and receives his cut. The Supply Commissioner knows and receives his portion. The State Secretaries know and skim off their bit., then the Supply Minister and finally the Chief Minister. Bapuji’s main kerosene customers are truck drivers who illegally mix the kerosene with diesel, 50-50. Diesel sells for 35 rupees per litre so they are saving 5 rupees per litre.
Next to our building, on this lane of mostly family apartments, stands an unfinished gray concrete building, five stories high, if you count the open-air roofed top level. Compared to the other buildings on this lane, it is a high-rise. This structure was built by Bapuji, it seems, as a place to use up some of his ill-gotten gains. It has stood there for the past four or five years as an empty, incomplete monument to small-time corruption.
Down the lane from our apartment, the apartment that is upstairs from Anand’s battery and inverter business (a good business to be in, in this town of frequent power cuts) and the adjoining nursery school, at the corner of the small road that connects with the larger road, is a room, a business, run by Bapuji. Across the lane from this corner room is a pile of about 15 red steel 45 gallon drums.
Bapuji is a money lender, a loan shark, and a black market kerosene dealer. He is about 60 with a round smiling face. On his face is a slightly bemused expression. His head is covered in a small white cloth wrap, a sort of turban and he is dressed in a blue checked lungi (a sarong, a common garment for men) and a white shirt. He sits with his tin box full of money which he was only too happy to open and show and pose for a photograph. His clients are the poor to which he makes loans at exorbitant interest rates. Somewhat in the shadows sits Pupay, tall, with a long, handsome, somewhat arrogant face, slightly sinister. He is armed, so says Anand, and is Bapuji’s body guard and debt collector.
Kerosene is rationed to 3 litres per month and can be purchased only with a ration card. Bapuji has 3000 legitimate customers and has had printed 3000 fake ration cards so he can buy double the amount of kerosene. He buys it for 11 rupees per litre, the government rate, and sells it for 20 to 25 rupees per litre. The inspectors know he does this and they receive their cut. The Supply Officer knows about it and receives his cut. The Supply Commissioner knows and receives his portion. The State Secretaries know and skim off their bit., then the Supply Minister and finally the Chief Minister. Bapuji’s main kerosene customers are truck drivers who illegally mix the kerosene with diesel, 50-50. Diesel sells for 35 rupees per litre so they are saving 5 rupees per litre.
Next to our building, on this lane of mostly family apartments, stands an unfinished gray concrete building, five stories high, if you count the open-air roofed top level. Compared to the other buildings on this lane, it is a high-rise. This structure was built by Bapuji, it seems, as a place to use up some of his ill-gotten gains. It has stood there for the past four or five years as an empty, incomplete monument to small-time corruption.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Khajuraho
The temples, carvings, palaces and paintings we visited on our two week journey south were spectacular and amazing but the hard sell methods of the touts selling maps, postcards, books, jewelry, clothes, Kashmiri crafts, taxi rides, rickshaw rides, brass ware, and on and on was a real drawback to wonders of the historical monuments. My stories will deal people, places and events other than what you see in the guidebooks.
In Khajuraho we settled for the first hotel with the right sized bathroom door.
“The room is clean, nicely painted in shades of yellow and blue-green. The windows at the back look out on a minor garbage dump and behind that is a street with a couple of shops and homes and children playing cricket, riding bikes, running back and forth, singing, pumping water—there is a pump at the side of the road—running errands etc.. There is a small temple to the right of the dump and the dump is home to a family of wild pigs. They are black with stiff bristles standing up straight all along their back and they are very itchy creatures spending a lot of time scratching and rubbing their bodies on the edge of a stone wall. They are mostly sows, some with full milk dugs and the only boar I have seen is a young one. Sharing this place with the pigs are cows, goats and dogs. The dogs are very respectful of the pigs. Scared, I think. It’s easy to be entertained by just looking out the window.”
One evening, still in Khajuraho, we were having chai and ghulab jamens at a street stall and a young man came and sat with us and started a conversation, probably with the ubiquitous “What country are you from?” We of course wondered what his line would be and what he wanted us to buy. He’d had some university training in Delhi, so he said. He apologetically questioned my disability and it turned out that he has a niece, 16, who‘d had polio as a baby, can walk holding on to the wall or furniture, has crutches but won’t use them. He takes her to school on his bike. He asked if I would come to visit her and encourage her to practice her walking so she can become stronger. We of course said yes and made arrangements to meet the next day at the gate of the Jain temples, near his home.
After our tour of the Jain temples we met Vijay as arranged and walked down a path strewn with plastic bags and other trash. On one side was a hostel for Jain pilgrims to stay and on the other side a dry empty field. Khajuraho has had no rain for three years. The monsoon has passed it by. It’s a big concern for the people of the area, understandably.
We came to Vijay’s compound, first past some tethered water buffalo and past some small mud and brick homes for cows and a couple of very small homes for people. We were led to a cheerily painted light blue house with two darker blue steel doors. His sister, Gita, was tall like her brother with a lovely keen intelligent face. We went inside the tidy room. One doorway led to a small kitchen, the small clay stove in one corner. Two other doorways led to other rooms. Inside the house we met Oma another sister and two boys of Oma’s and two of Gita’s. From behind a curtained door shyly appeared Pretty, Vijay’s niece and Gita’s daughter. She was short and stood holding on to the doorway. A chair was brought for her. She was very pretty, suiting her name.
We all had a spirited conversation and it was my job to encourage her to try to walk more and get out of the house more. We asked to see her crutches. They were never used as evidenced by the layer of dust coating the arm supports. It was obvious that they were too long for her. Ross asked for a tool and he and another fellow made them 3 or 4 inches shorter.
The two sisters were fascinated by me—felt my legs and feet, pushed up my sleeves and looked at my arms, Vijay said Oma was a doctor. I of course believed her and then there was great laughter when Vijay said it was a joke. I did my duty and tried to tell Pretty useful or helpful things about being a disabled person, etc., etc., she could speak a little English and Vijay translated, but just being there was the important thing, not my so-called words of wisdom.
We were invited to stay for lunch. I went into the kitchen to watch Gita at her little stove. She chopped vegetables with a curved knife shaped like a small sickle, sharpened, I think, on both sides. Being curved it can cut in the curved bowls and cooking pots by rocking it back and forth. The kitchen had a doorway to the outside. On the left was a loo, on the right was a washing area and beyond was a field growing mustard and wheat. Lunch was tomato subje, papas, dal and chapattis. Sweets were also included in the meal and Vijay said he was getting them also only because we were there. He was served by his two sisters like a little king.
After lunch we were treated to a musical performance. Pretty’s younger brother sang a Bollywood song miming a microphone. He then found a silver shampoo bottle and used that for his mic. Three or four songs were sung, some joined by Pretty and Oma singing and clapping time. Lots of laughter and fun.
I was then presented with the gift of a beautiful dress with gorgeous silver and gold embroidery made by Pretty. The sisters tried to squeeze me into it in vain but I said it would fit my daughter and Pretty was thrilled. Vijay folded it carefully and wrapped it in newspaper and wrote on it “To Eliza from Pretty”.
Photos were taken and addresses and Oma entreated us to come to her house the next day for lunch. We were not sure of our plans for the following day and could only say “Shahaad.” Perhaps. Fond goodbyes were said and we left.
It turned out that we were to stay another day and so we called Vijay that night and said we would be happy to take up Oma’s offer for lunch the next day. We found our way back to the sisters compound and squeezed into Oma’s tiny one room home, perhaps 12’x7’. Vijay wasn’t there. A small television was being watched by one of Oma’s boys. A plastic chair was brought for Ross and we showed our photo album to Gita and Oma. And then there was Pretty at the door having come on her crutches! She came in and sat on a chair brought by a cousin and I showed her our pictures. She appeared more confident with her English speaking skills, spoke more and understood more. Everyone was teaching me Hindi.
Lunch was served similar to the day before. Tasty.
We brought our gifts of dates and cashews for the sisters and stickers, notebooks, pens and key lanyards for the kids.
Vijay arrived on his bicycle after lunch and was very happy with the BC Hydro lanyard that lights up blue that we gave to him.
I was presented with a rose given to me by a cousin-brother, (In Hindi the word for brother and sister is the same as for girl cousin and boy cousin) and we went to see the field and garden. Gita’s husband is a taxi driver and his parents provided the field. You can see from their houses who has the greater income. Oma’s husband is a farm labourer.
Our visits with this family meant much more to me that the temple wonders of Khajuraho, amazing as they were.
In Khajuraho we settled for the first hotel with the right sized bathroom door.
“The room is clean, nicely painted in shades of yellow and blue-green. The windows at the back look out on a minor garbage dump and behind that is a street with a couple of shops and homes and children playing cricket, riding bikes, running back and forth, singing, pumping water—there is a pump at the side of the road—running errands etc.. There is a small temple to the right of the dump and the dump is home to a family of wild pigs. They are black with stiff bristles standing up straight all along their back and they are very itchy creatures spending a lot of time scratching and rubbing their bodies on the edge of a stone wall. They are mostly sows, some with full milk dugs and the only boar I have seen is a young one. Sharing this place with the pigs are cows, goats and dogs. The dogs are very respectful of the pigs. Scared, I think. It’s easy to be entertained by just looking out the window.”
One evening, still in Khajuraho, we were having chai and ghulab jamens at a street stall and a young man came and sat with us and started a conversation, probably with the ubiquitous “What country are you from?” We of course wondered what his line would be and what he wanted us to buy. He’d had some university training in Delhi, so he said. He apologetically questioned my disability and it turned out that he has a niece, 16, who‘d had polio as a baby, can walk holding on to the wall or furniture, has crutches but won’t use them. He takes her to school on his bike. He asked if I would come to visit her and encourage her to practice her walking so she can become stronger. We of course said yes and made arrangements to meet the next day at the gate of the Jain temples, near his home.
After our tour of the Jain temples we met Vijay as arranged and walked down a path strewn with plastic bags and other trash. On one side was a hostel for Jain pilgrims to stay and on the other side a dry empty field. Khajuraho has had no rain for three years. The monsoon has passed it by. It’s a big concern for the people of the area, understandably.
We came to Vijay’s compound, first past some tethered water buffalo and past some small mud and brick homes for cows and a couple of very small homes for people. We were led to a cheerily painted light blue house with two darker blue steel doors. His sister, Gita, was tall like her brother with a lovely keen intelligent face. We went inside the tidy room. One doorway led to a small kitchen, the small clay stove in one corner. Two other doorways led to other rooms. Inside the house we met Oma another sister and two boys of Oma’s and two of Gita’s. From behind a curtained door shyly appeared Pretty, Vijay’s niece and Gita’s daughter. She was short and stood holding on to the doorway. A chair was brought for her. She was very pretty, suiting her name.
We all had a spirited conversation and it was my job to encourage her to try to walk more and get out of the house more. We asked to see her crutches. They were never used as evidenced by the layer of dust coating the arm supports. It was obvious that they were too long for her. Ross asked for a tool and he and another fellow made them 3 or 4 inches shorter.
The two sisters were fascinated by me—felt my legs and feet, pushed up my sleeves and looked at my arms, Vijay said Oma was a doctor. I of course believed her and then there was great laughter when Vijay said it was a joke. I did my duty and tried to tell Pretty useful or helpful things about being a disabled person, etc., etc., she could speak a little English and Vijay translated, but just being there was the important thing, not my so-called words of wisdom.
We were invited to stay for lunch. I went into the kitchen to watch Gita at her little stove. She chopped vegetables with a curved knife shaped like a small sickle, sharpened, I think, on both sides. Being curved it can cut in the curved bowls and cooking pots by rocking it back and forth. The kitchen had a doorway to the outside. On the left was a loo, on the right was a washing area and beyond was a field growing mustard and wheat. Lunch was tomato subje, papas, dal and chapattis. Sweets were also included in the meal and Vijay said he was getting them also only because we were there. He was served by his two sisters like a little king.
After lunch we were treated to a musical performance. Pretty’s younger brother sang a Bollywood song miming a microphone. He then found a silver shampoo bottle and used that for his mic. Three or four songs were sung, some joined by Pretty and Oma singing and clapping time. Lots of laughter and fun.
I was then presented with the gift of a beautiful dress with gorgeous silver and gold embroidery made by Pretty. The sisters tried to squeeze me into it in vain but I said it would fit my daughter and Pretty was thrilled. Vijay folded it carefully and wrapped it in newspaper and wrote on it “To Eliza from Pretty”.
Photos were taken and addresses and Oma entreated us to come to her house the next day for lunch. We were not sure of our plans for the following day and could only say “Shahaad.” Perhaps. Fond goodbyes were said and we left.
It turned out that we were to stay another day and so we called Vijay that night and said we would be happy to take up Oma’s offer for lunch the next day. We found our way back to the sisters compound and squeezed into Oma’s tiny one room home, perhaps 12’x7’. Vijay wasn’t there. A small television was being watched by one of Oma’s boys. A plastic chair was brought for Ross and we showed our photo album to Gita and Oma. And then there was Pretty at the door having come on her crutches! She came in and sat on a chair brought by a cousin and I showed her our pictures. She appeared more confident with her English speaking skills, spoke more and understood more. Everyone was teaching me Hindi.
Lunch was served similar to the day before. Tasty.
We brought our gifts of dates and cashews for the sisters and stickers, notebooks, pens and key lanyards for the kids.
Vijay arrived on his bicycle after lunch and was very happy with the BC Hydro lanyard that lights up blue that we gave to him.
I was presented with a rose given to me by a cousin-brother, (In Hindi the word for brother and sister is the same as for girl cousin and boy cousin) and we went to see the field and garden. Gita’s husband is a taxi driver and his parents provided the field. You can see from their houses who has the greater income. Oma’s husband is a farm labourer.
Our visits with this family meant much more to me that the temple wonders of Khajuraho, amazing as they were.
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